


Portraiture

by madlennox



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Drabble Collection, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, References to Depression, Solitude, Suicide, Triggery Content, this is pretty dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 19:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madlennox/pseuds/madlennox
Summary: It is in the final moments of a mech's life where we catch a glimpse of the life they lived.A series of short, exploratory drabbles featuring a bot in pain, particularly a certain underappreciated tactician.





	1. On Contrasts

In the confines of Prowl's office, the sound of metal croaking and scraping echo in the sixteen by nine space. Clearing his desk, files and personal belongings, the Praxian stores them neatly in container boxes by the door. Clean, tidy, ready to be picked up. Not a mess in sight. He leaves his office and shuts the lights. 

Objects of paltry lie in blue-black stillness. 

A memo the next day informs the Autobots that Commander Prowl was found in his habsuite, sat on his lounge chair overlooking the Iacon cityscape.

A crystal glass was nursed on his hand.

There, nestled at the bottom of its cylinder, a single drop of mercury shone, cheering on the bright, mid-noon sun, while spots of rainbow fractals danced on silent, gray servos.


	2. Plans Gone Awry

It was supposed to be secure.

Controls hijacked, the area locked down for the next orn, stasis cuffs attached to the pipe. Not a single spark was to disturb the scene and most of all leave it, at least not yet. Preparations were made, tools reacquisitioned from the weapons bay. No bot should have ever been anywhere near. So why was he imagining noises that should not be there?

It was supposed to be easy.

A sensory inhibitor chip, a clamp to the main fuel line by the jugular, a quick 38 degree upward thrust, right below the bumper– more if need be, if only he could get his servo to reach for the energon blade that skidded across the floor.

It was supposed to be painless.

Hanging off the pipe, body strained, time seemed to slow. His spark felt like burning, internals pumping fuel with vigor, energon leaking through the lacerations that shouldn’t even be there, gushing with every movement he made to ease his pain, dribbling down his chassis and pooling beneath his pedes. All because he faltered. In the last astrosecond he angled it off-target. Pathetic.

It was supposed to be his.

Laying still, his mind gnawing at his peace with endless calculations, relaying what went wrong, the total duration it would take to get what he wanted. The probabilities of his failure screamed at him. He laughed and cursed at the momentary weakness that took hold of him. But he was a patient mech. All he had to do was wait. All 3 joors of it.

He had no choice.

Energon slowly crept through the metal floor, veins of lifeblood crawling through the gaps, reaching for an end. Agonizingly, time came to pass. His internals straining in its laboured gyrations until it came to a halt, the tears of energon ceasing its flow from his wound. 

He felt weightless, numb. His temperature ran cold. And with the last threads of consciousness, with a final sigh on his lips, came freedom. 

**Author's Note:**

> I ain't much a writer, but I just wanted to share some feels to those who sympathize for this character. Just trying my hand at writing as I've come to find that it never hurts to try. :) Critique and helpful resources welcomed. I need to expound my English literacy more.


End file.
